Volition
by KToon
Summary: "You're being righted for your wrongs," Mackel responded plainly. "Atoned for your sins. Whether your sons make it out of this, well, that's entirely up to you. Now...let's begin, shall we?"
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, y'all. So, this is a new story that kind of just developed in my mind, and I'm not 100% sure where I'm taking it, though I've got a general idea. I was going to wait until I had completed the story as a whole, but I'm kind of losing a little interest, even though I _want_ to continue. Does that make sense? I'm not sure it does, but I presume you get my point.**

 **Basically, if y'all want me to continue, I'll continue, but that's up to you guys. Just let me know!**

 **Anyways, that's enough of me talking.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own any of the main characters or Supernatural itself. I'm just an onlooker to Kripke's sandbox, stranded behind the fence, wanting to go play with all of the shiny and new toys in it.**

 **Warnings: This story is probably the darkest I have and most likely ever will write. The rating will remain Teen for now, but if I do decide to follow through with what I have in mind, then I will add a trigger warning and move the rating up to Mature.**

 **Thank you, of course, to the wonderful Kath and Jenn for their beta jobs.**

 **Sam (16)**

 **Dean (20)**

 **John (Unimportant)**

* * *

vo·li·tion

vōˈliSH(ə)n/

noun

noun: volition

the faculty or power of using one's will.

* * *

The smell was the first thing John took note of when he first came to. He had just finished up a pretty nasty hunt, though he had thankfully gotten out unscathed. Right? An aswang if he remembered correctly—a vampire, ghoul, and warlock-like species—that was pretty pissed off and in desperate need of food to keep it alive. Granted, the food was human, so John couldn't allow that to slide by, and had left to take care of it. It had been a pretty easy and textbook job...so why was a band of drums playing heavy metal inside of his head right now?

He cracked his neck and slowly opened his eyes, the dim room greeting him mercifully. He was sitting down in a hard, wooden chair, and his back stinged from the sudden change of position when he altered his posture. Moving to try and stand up, he found it fruitless when a soft clang of chains let him know he wasn't going anywhere, and he released a groan.

"I see you're awake," a voice said to his left, and John whipped his head around to face the person who spoke. It was a man about in his late 30's, John guessed, with black, shaggy hair and piercing green eyes which reminded him so much of Dean. But it wasn't Dean.

"Mackel?" John wondered aloud, recognizing the features of the person who sat before him in a similar chair to his, minus the chains. It had been a long while since they had last met, probably more than five years, and John was confused on why he was shackled to a chair while Mackel wasn't. To be fair, their last meeting hadn't been all cupcakes and brownies, but it wasn't _that_ bad.

"John," Mackel nodded, getting to his feet in one, swift motion. "It's been a while."

"That it has," John agreed, pausing before asking what was really itching at the top of his mind. "What's going on?"

Mackel walked to his side, smiling and taking his time before responding to the question. He leaned down so that he was even with John's face, and John could easily smell the stink of old whiskey on his breath. "You remember that thing back in Oklahoma City that we worked on together?" he asked alas. "That little reservoir that was home to three black dogs?"

John did indeed remember. It had been the October five years prior to now, where John had left to take care of a hunt only to discover that instead of there only being one monster to take care of, there was an entire pack. He had sought help from Mackel and his wife who were a local hunting couple that was widely known amongst the hunting world, and had worked together to rid the area from the supernatural beings.

Mackel's wife, Erica, he recalled, had volunteered to be the bait and draw the pack outwards into the shooting range of the men, but in doing so had been caught off guard by a fourth dog that flanked her in which then attacked and mangled her side. It hadn't been life threatening, and John and Mackel managed to pull her out of the line of fire before killing all of the mutts, so he didn't know what that had to do with why he was, presumably, captured in this basement of a suburban house.

His thoughts drifted briefly toward his sons who were back at the motel, but he extinguished those immediately because in situations like this, you couldn't have distractions.

"Sorry, four black dogs?" Mackel corrected himself tauntingly.

"I do," John told him with a fire in his eyes, "but I don't see why that has to do with anything." Nothing bad had happened, and he had left Erica in Mackel's care because she was going to be _fine._ Even just thinking it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Oh, but it has everything to do with this. John, understand this. You left me with my bleeding wife and no medical supplies. I managed to suture the wound _by myself,_ but there's hardly anything you can do for infection."

The confession left John speechless. Erica had been a bright, young woman, despite the rural lifestyle she lived with her husband. He honest to God had thought that she was fine.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, still shocked from the bold statement. "I'm so sorry."

Mackel looked him in the eye, then shook his head. "Sorry can't do nothing now. She's gone." He looked crestfallen for a moment, and John filed that information away so it could possibly be used for later when trying to escape. "Anyways," he continued, standing back up, "you understand why you're here now, right?"

John glared. "Yes, I do. Go ahead. _Kill me._ "

There it was, that crazed laugh again, Mackel's entire body shaking with amusement. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you," he said, still chuckling. "That'd be way too simple. I'm here to make you suffer." He tossed one last look at John, then called over his shoulder, "Bring them in!"

John didn't even get two seconds to process what he said and the bad feeling that came with it before the basement door slammed open at the top of the stairs and four figures came through. With the lighting, he couldn't see their faces but could definitely tell that two of them were unconscious and being dragged by the others.

The two awake men were ruthless in dragging the unconscious ones down the stairs, making John flinch everytime a loud thud was heard. After what seemed like an eternity, they were on the same level as him, and the light from the single lightbulb above gave enough luminescence so that he could see their faces. When he was able to, though, he wished he wasn't.

All of the sudden, he was kicking and screaming, tugging at his bindings and not even giving a fuck that they were cutting through his skin and making him bleed. The pain was unregistrable to him now.

Because before him sat his two sons, both so still they could be mistaken for dead, and he wanted to kill every damn person in this room. Frantically, he looked to Mackel who was watching the whole encounter with a wicked grin plastered on his face. Calming down ever so slightly, he breathlessly asked, "What do they have to do anything? They're no part of this! Let them go!"

Mackel t'sked, and gestured to his two henchmen who then took the cue to chain Sam and Dean to respective poles with similar manacles to John's own. "See, now you're right about that part," Mackel said. "They're just collateral damage. This is about _you._ Because how do you hurt John Winchester? You hurt his children."

That angered John even more. Sure, Sam and Dean were both old enough to hold their own in their fights, but John was like a grizzly protecting his den. Nobody hurt his family. "If you want to hurt someone, hurt me! They're completely innocent!"

"I know," Mackel stated almost pitifully. "But like I said. Collateral damage."

Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted a twitch and noticed Dean starting to move around ever so slightly, undoubtedly awake but trying to assess his surroundings without alerting the enemies. John wanted to smile slightly at that, because goddamn he had taught Dean well, but instead kept his façade straight.

Mackel must have sensed something, however, because in the next moment he spoke out loud, still facing John, "Glad you could join us, Dean."

Dean tensed for a second, before cautiously opening his eyes and scanning the room. Once he met John's, a whole wave of worry could be seen washing through him, but when he spotted his brother, the fear turned to intense anger.

"What did you do to him?" he half yelled, half croaked with a dry throat.

Mackel turned around and answered plainly, "Same thing we did to you. A little tranq, but man he put up a fight. Once you stepped in front of him it was easy to get you, but he, now _he_ was a strong bastard. Gave Dayne there that shiner. Probably used a little more than necessary to bring him down. I'm telling you though, once he saw you on the ground, he became a whole new person."

Dean visibly bristled at that, unsure of whether to take that as praise or an insult. John didn't know either.

"But now that you asked, I guess it is time for him to join the party, isn't it?" John froze, not liking that tone of voice, and he saw Dean's mouth turn down into a snarl.

"Don't you touch him," Dean hissed menacingly, venom dripping lethally from his words.

Mackel ignored him, and walked over to where Sam was leaning against the pole, still completely out of it. "Hey Sammy," he whispered, "it's time to wake up." The punch came unexpectedly, and Dean and John both fought with their binds, Dean adding a string of curse words as the rust dug into his wrists.

A small whimper emitted itself from Sam's lips, and his eyes gradually opened, revealing dazed, hazel slits. "Wha…?" he trailed off, then catching sight of Dean. "De'?"

"I'm here Sammy, I'm here," Dean reassured him, and John guessed that his younger son had a slight concussion. It pained him to think that a good thing, as it could be worse, but for now it would have to suffice.

"Cute," Mackel observed with what seemed like regalement, "but we're not here for family fetes. I'm sure your father hasn't told you the story, so you probably have no idea why you're here. Good. The less you know the better. But hey, if he wants to tell you then that's fine with me. I don't really give a shit about what he does anymore." During the speech, Sam tossed confused glances at John, and he felt guilty that his sons were put in this situation because of him. "So, how about this?" Mackel continued. "I've got a game to play."

Dean looked like he was about to speak, but Sam cut in before either he or John could retort. "Yeah? Well how about this—we don't want to play whatever sick-ass game you have in mind, and we sure as hell don't want to sit as defenseless bitches to your fucking mental scheme. So fuck off, and leave my family alone."

John was slightly surprised by the stableness of Sam's voice, but knew he had taught his sons to recover quickly. Pain was a part of hunting, like it or not. You weren't going to win every fight. And more often than not, in the process of winning a fight, you were going to get the absolute shit kicked out of you. Thus, the need to learn how to take a punch and a beating, to play through the pain, but most paramount to be capable of reacting automatically to these actions, was a necessity. Your face may be bloodied, your knuckles eviscerated, but you just had to take it because one faulty move could mean inescapable death. So...they dealt with it. Concussion or not.

"'Defenseless bitches,'" Mackel repeated slowly, as though seeing how the words sounded on his tongue. "I'll keep that in mind."

That snapped John back to reality, and he left his previous thoughts alone. He had a situation to deal with now that required his full focus. Everything else could wait, now that his boys were involved.

"Anyway," Mackel continued, seeming to forget about the interruption and turning back to John, "here's how this is going to go. 26 letters, Johnny, are in the alphabet. If you make it through all of them, well then that's the finish, right?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, thanks for the preschool lesson, professor. What do you mean?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the remark, but at this point John really wished both of his sons would stop with the snark for once because before they knew it their mouths were going to get them in a hell of a lot more trouble than they were already in. Mackel didn't seem to mind though, instead answering the question. "What I mean, is that if you make it through all of the letters, we'll walk out of here and forget this whole thing even happened. But, here's the thing. You're going to pick a letter, John. We've got slips of paper with each one on the front, and a punishment starting with the corresponding letter on the back. You choose a letter, we'll read you the other side, and you choose one son to endure penance."

John felt like the wind was knocked out of him, and it was suddenly far too hard to get air than it should be. "Penance?" he breathed. "How is that penance?"

"You're being righted for your wrongs," Mackel responded plainly. "Whether your sons make it out of this, well, that's entirely up to you. Now...let's begin, shall we?"

"I'm not going to choose."

Mackel looked sinister. "John, I'm giving you an option here. If you want I can just shoot both of them in the heads and leave you to clean up their dead bodies by yourself. It's not fun, sure, but it'll get the job done for me and I'll be fine with it. Your choice."

"X."

"Pardon?"

"X," John clarified. Sam and Dean looked stricken as a smile lit up Mackels face, and John cast an apologetic glance to his children. He knew they could take it; they were strong. Probably some of the most brave people he'd ever known. But he had a strategy here—the weakest letters were likely to do the least amount of damage, right? Hell, even he couldn't think of anything bad that started with the letter x. He just had to hope that one of his sons could find a way out of their binds before things got too bad.

That was his first mistake.

 _tbc?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Due to request, I am continuing! Thank you to those who reviewed! You know, us authors don't really get anything in return besides feedback, so it's always welcome. 3**

 **Mild warning for blood and gore this chapter (and language, as usual).**

 **See disclaimers Chapter 1.**

* * *

Dean was confused.

Well, to be fair Dean was always a little slow on some things, but now he was really, _really_ confused. They were hunters—they got put in situations like this for a living, so it wasn't terrifying him to be practically kidnapped right now. But, what _was_ worrying him a bit, was the fact that their father seemed to be giving in so easily. Of course, he understood that their dad was trying their best to get out of his chains, but if he was giving up then that meant he was trapped. Mackels had probably searched their pockets anyway, before they brought all of them in, so the chance of finding something was slim to none.

They had been stripped of their extra flannel and jackets—most likely when they were drugged—leaving him, his dad, and Sam all in just plain, white, and in Sam's case, grey, tees as well as their basic jeans. Their shoes were gone also, but their socks remained. He had absolutely nothing on him, which made him frustrated.

And, to top it off, either him or Sam were about to sliced with an X-Acto blade. To hell if he was going to let Sam go through that, though.

The moment Mackel read that aloud, Sam seemed to become as rigid as a pole. It wasn't that _he_ was afraid to be cut by one of the sharpest knives out there, but rather the fear that _Dean_ might have to. Which, by the way, Dean was going to, because like he said, Sam was not going to get harmed in this if he had any say in it.

He watched carefully as John's eyes clouded with uneasiness, and maybe a bit of panic, but Dean was willing to let that go. "Dad…" he growled warningly. "If you even think of picking Sammy for that I will be sure to kill you myself."

John seemed to snap out of his daze and looked Dean in the eye, while Sam began to protest. "Dean, _no._ I can hold my own, okay? I don't need you to protect me from this, and I certainly don't need you to suffer for something I can handle." He was rambling, but Dean knew that was only because himself was in danger.

He gave a wry smile, and softly said, "I know you can handle it, Sammy. I know you can. But it's not a matter of dealing, it's a matter of escape. Let me take the hits. You guys will get out of this safely."

Sam looked desperately to his father. "Dad, I'm not leaving here without him."

As much as Dean knew that was true, they didn't really have to many more options here. If he took all of the letters, then, well, that meant both Sam and their dad wouldn't be harmed. However, if both him and Sam got hurt, then it would be even more difficult for John to get them out of there. To him, the formal option seemed plain and simple.

"How long do you think you can hold up?" John asked him quietly, and Dean felt the first pang of hope since they had first woken up restrained to water pipes.

"Long enough."

"What's it going to be, John? The clock's ticking," Mackel questioned venomously.

Dean saw John inhale deeply before answering so silent that you had to be paying close attention to even hear what he said. He saw Sam's heartbroken and betrayed face, like that of a kicked puppy, and it made him want to hug his brother so tightly and never let go. He also saw as Mackel motioned to his buddy—Dayne, the one with the black eye that was courtesy of Sam—who then unlocked his cuffs with a small, silver key. Then, everything went red.

Lashing out, he struck Dayne square in the face, right on the opposite side of what had been hit before. _Good,_ Dean thought, _the asshole deserves to look like a raccoon._ The other man, who's name had yet to be said, reacted quickly, taking the opportunity to nail him right in the crease of the back of his legs. He folded unwillingly, the man seizing the time to put him in a chokehold, but recovered swiftly to use his head and smash it back—a maneuver that unfortunately was practiced far too many times than it should be for someone his age. For a brief second he saw stars, but was forced to clear his vision when a gunshot rang throughout the basement. He flinched, frantically looking for his dad and his brother.

Turns out, the gun had been fired into the ceiling with his very own Colt, but in the hands of Mackel who stood directly behind Sam. "Enough," he said solidly, his voice like ice and his expression as hard as stone. He was obviously done with the party tricks, the fun in them long past gone the moment Dean tried to attack. "You make another move, and I will put a bullet in his brain." Dean froze on the spot as the gun was lowered to Sam's temple, and he could see his brother shaking slightly, his breathing becoming fast, hitched gasps. Sam was never truly comfortable with having a gun aimed at him and would always try and move away when he was put in a situation like so, so having one resting against his head was probably scaring him shitless.

But, on the contrary, being the selfless bastard he was, his expression contradicted him when he soundlessly whispered, "Do it."

They were definitely going to have to talk about that when they got out of here, _alive._

Dean shook his head. "Not going to happen, Sammy," he said. "Just get it over with." He fell to his knees, placing his hands behind his head and interlocking his fingers.

Mackel arched an eyebrow. "Well, I guess I know how to get _you_ to cooperate," he observed. "Cuff him."

Dayne, recovering, snatched the discarded pair of handcuffs and locked them around Dean's wrists. It felt like he was being arrested, which wouldn't be the first time, but it was worrisome nonetheless. With hunter instincts like the ones he'd been brought up with, restrainment always made him uncomfortable. If you were bound, you were useless. There was no chance of fighting back, especially when you had absolutely nothing on you to protect yourself.

He was led to the center of the room, and shoved onto his hands and knees. The concrete floor skinned his palms, the stinging sensation taking effect almost immediately almost like he had fallen off of a bike. He sucked in a breath of air through his teeth, and from the floor he could see Mackel's feet walk in front of him. "Do the honors, Eli," he told the other man.

Dayne placed his boot on Dean's back, resting it there for a second almost mockingly, before stepping down. Dean fell onto his stomach, and Dayne took the opportunity to put one knee his back, keeping him entirely pinned.

"What're we doin' here, Dayne? 'Cause, you know, I don't swing this way," Dean bit out.

Dayne chuckled, a deep throaty bellow that racked his body, but didn't elaborate. Dean sensed another figure, presumably Eli, walk around behind him and he shuddered, heedful that he was holding the blade.

"Sam," Dean heard Mackel begin, "you're supposed to be the smart one in this family, right?"

Sam was indeed the smart one, but Dean had no idea how Mackel even knew that. Sam rarely got his hands dirty, not that their father would let him come on hunts that often, but nevertheless despite the fact he despised the entire killing persona that came with the burden of hunting, if he had to, he would shoot to kill. In truth, underestimating the little brother was what got a lot of the monsters they hunted slaughtered.

Mackel continued even after nobody answered him. "Tell me. What do you know about Roman numerology?" The question was completely random, and even though he wasn't facing his brother, Dean could hear the furrowing of Sam's eyebrows, the gears turning in his head.

"You're sick, you know that?" Sam suddenly said, the realization dawning on him.

Dean still didn't comprehend. "What? Sammy?"

"I've been told that," Mackel spoke over Dean. "Anyway. That's not the point here. I would really love to know, what do you know about the Romans?"

There was a brief moment of silence, before Sam snapped, "Roman numerology was developed for a common method of counting back in 300 AD, and was essential for communications and trade. It consists of seven letters to represent numbers."

"And what is that third letter?"

"X."

"And? What does that represent?"

Sam hesitated. "Ten," he said wistfully. "Ten X's." Dean was pretty sure that last sentence was for him because now he understood what was going to happen, and he was not looking forward to it.

"Exactly," Mackel praised. "Go ahead, Eli."

The pain was excruciating. No, scratch that, it was murderous. The first slice that Eli made with the knife was deep and thick, breaking the skin as though it was butter and cutting soundly through his flesh. He held back a scream, instead replacing it with a guttural groan. Dean could feel the blood welling on his back from the wound, and he twitched in his locked position as the blade was raised.

The bliss lasted for about two seconds before the knife was back on his skin, cutting in the opposite direction so that it overlayed the first line. When it passed the original mark, he couldn't help but try to thrash around, though Dayne held firm. Instead, he focused on a good time he had in his life, trying to deject himself from the pain.

The movies. Yes. Their dad was gone on a hunt. He was with Sam, in downtown Portland, at the cinema watching a movie. Granted, they didn't really have money to pay for a movie, but the back door worked just as good as the front ones (as soon as he introduced it to his lockpick), and the crowds of people were easy slip in with.

He remembers Sammy, his seven year old and innocent eyes looking up at him, gleaming with curiosity and admiration as he thanked Dean over and over for taking him, claiming that their dad wouldn't let them do anything of this sort.

"You're the best big brother ever," he said lovingly.

" _Dean!"_

"And you're the most nerdy little brother ever," Dean had warmly responded, ruffling the smaller boy's hair.

" _Dean!"_

For hours they would sit and watch movies, snuggling into the soft chairs and watching the feature play with attentiveness. It was good. _They_ were good. As long as he had his brother by his side, _Dean_ was good.

" _Dean!"_

Just like that, the scenery changed. He was still forced face-down on the cement floor, the only thing that had looked like it had significantly changed being the position of Dayne on his back, and the ferocity of the agonizing cuts. In fact, Dayne wasn't even there anymore.

Dean's hands were unhandcuffed, but he didn't even want to move in fear that it would cause more pain than he was already in. Yeah...he could take a break before trying to sit up.

"Dean? Dean? Are you okay?" a trembling voice asked from behind, and at first he was confused on why his brother sounded so scared, before he realized, _oh...yeah._

Then, a new voice spoke up and he realized he hadn't replied yet to his brother's questions. "Son?"

"M'good," he said weakly, not really convinced by his own statement.

"Dad, he's bleeding badly," Sam stated, and Dean managed to form a coherent thought. _No shit, Sherlock._

Apparently Mackel and his buddies weren't in the room anymore, and Dean was thankful for that. He had zoned out most of his surroundings anyway, but now he was concerned about his back. "How's...how's it look?" he said, stumbling over his words.

Sam managed to scoff. "Like you've got ten X's on your back in two, neat rows. They...don't look like they need stitches at least?" he informed, his sentence turning into more of a question at the end of it as he looked at John.

Their dad shook his head. "They're fine. That was only one letter though. With how this is going down...Dean you cannot take all of these."

Dean begged to differ. "I can take enough," he said determinedly, pushing himself to his forearms so his back was in a low-hanging arch. The cuts stung, and he bit his tongue.

Sam looked like he had heard more than he needed to, and although Dean had known this was coming, he had dreaded it. "No!" Sam exploded. "Goddamnit, just, no!" He lowered his voice slightly. "You cannot keep taking all of these hits, if that's what it's going to be like. Look, I know you're trying to protect me and all, but Dean, if you keep doing this then you'll be dead way before this even ends. It's a ploy. He set this up how he did because he knows that this is the type of strategy we would go for. Pick. Me."

Dean started to protest, but his dad cut him off. "Dean, shut up." Dean reeled back slightly, as if struck, and blinked. "As little as this happens, I have to agree with Sam. I'm not losing any sons with this. I refuse to. Sam gets the next one."

His sentence was said with such finality, it aroused Dean. "No…" he murmured, but there was no conviction there.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, not really knowing what to say, and Dean attempted to pull himself to a sitting position but failed.

 _Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap._

Dean raised his head.

 _Tap._

 _Tap. Tap. Pause._

 _Tap. Pause. Tap._

A smile broke out onto his face. _Sam, you sneaky bastard,_ he thought pridefully as he translated the Morse Code into his name. He answered by dragging his fingers in front of him, and slowly coded a question mark. Sam knew something that he didn't, something that they couldn't talk about without being overheard. His heart leapt with joy as Sam finished his reply.

 _Paperclip._


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! Sorry for the long delay, I got a little sidetracked from writing this; but, I do assure you that I am not abandoning this story. Thanks for being patient.**

 **If you haven't notice by now, I've been alternating perspectives throughout all three of our boys. It's Sam's turn!**

 **Also, this is the first time I've tried writing anything along the lines of delirium, so I'm not sure if I captured it right. I am no medical professional, though I do a lot of research when I write my stories so hopefully it's not too unbearable. Feedback would be appreciated to help me know if I got this right!**

 **Warnings/Disclaimer see ch.1.**

* * *

Not that they could keep track of time, but Sam could assume that it was at least three hours until their captors returned. Most of the duration was spent in silence, and he couldn't help but cringe every time Dean drew in a raspy breath. His brother couldn't really move, but he tried and that got him right back where he started—flat on his face. Eventually he gave up and closed his eyes, claiming that he was simply exhausted. Which, they all were, but Dean needed rest if he was going to be able to help get them out of there.

Sam knew that both of his family members had understood his message, as after that the atmosphere seemed to be more hopeful and overall brighter. The problem was, he couldn't necessarily reach the paperclip. He had been stripped down of everything else, including his switchblade he kept in his belt and the lockpick in his back pocket, but the paperclip remained in place. In his sock.

He usually kept it in there in the fear of this exact thing happening. It's not like he knew how to use it, but he _did_ know that it could unlock handcuffs, subsequently chains. They hadn't been trained in using paperclips, rather lockpicks, but it couldn't be that much different. Could it?

He'd tried to inconspicuously move his foot behind him and up, in case there were cameras watching, but the shackles had no give. He needed to Dean to get it. That...was going to be complicated though.

Dean was in no shape to be moving, let alone getting Sam out of his bindings. Most of the cuts on his back had clotted, but there were a few that still bled sluggishly. His white shirt was painted with red, almost like tie-dye, and Sam nearly felt like making himself believe it was in order to avoid the truth. His brother was bleeding out right before his eyes.

Sam and John had talked briefly about what letter to choose next—they avoided the paperclip topic completely because until either Dean could move or Sam was out of his chains, there was no way they were escaping—going through each letter one by one to try and guess the topics.

John had learned his lesson the first time. No matter what letter they were going to choose, the punishments would still be harsh. Sam knew that too, but if it meant that his brother wasn't going to take two in a row, then he would do it instantly.

 _"D?" Sam suggested. "Drowning?"_

 _John cocked his head. "You think?" he asked._

 _Sam thought for a moment. "Well, it's got to be something they could do inside of a basement, which drowning is definitely in that category. I can't think of anything else. It could just be that simple."_

 _"You think you can handle that?"_

 _"I'll feel like shit after...but yes."_

So when the basement door at the top of the stairs clanged open, Sam tensed and watched as Dean's eyes fluttered open. Letting out a grunt, he rubbed his eyelids and looked dazed to the door, Sam keeping an eye on him the whole time.

Soon, Mackel was walking to the center of the room, Dayne and Eli by his side. Dean, too weak, didn't resist as they dragged him back to the pole next to Sam, chaining him back up. His head hung limp on his chest, and Sam began to feel stabs of worry crawl up his throat.

"So?" Mackel started, rubbing his hands together. "Did you decide, John?"

John looked Mackel straight in the eye. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" he spat.

Mackel drew in a derisive breath through his teeth, sarcasm hanging heavy in the air. "Yeah, unfortunately, I do. What's it going to be?"

John cast a look at Sam, hesitating before saying, "D."

Mackel hummed as Eli handed him the slip of paper from his pocket, and turned it over. Sam watched as he laid it on his dad's lap, and noticed the faint smile curl at his lips. "I hope neither of your sons are afraid of the water."

Sam let out a breath of relief. So, it wasn't impossible to predict the choices. They just had to consider all of their options.

He didn't even hear his dad say his name, but the next thing he knew he was being dragged to the room's center, his legs burning up immediately from the sudden change of position. "Go get it, guys," Mackel said aloud, holding Sam by his hair and placing his pistol at his back.

Sam hated _this_. The whole thing with being pointed at with a gun. Just knowing that one pull of a trigger could end his life was terrifying. He didn't want to die yet. He wanted to _live_ ; he wanted to have a chance at _normal_. But most of all, he didn't want to leave Dean alone. Dean deserved a chance at a life, a regular one, not tainted by hunting and killing and training. He deserved to get a girl, live in an actual home, and have a family like everybody. But none of that would happen without Sam, and Sam understood that because it was a two-way street. With Dean gone...he didn't know if he could do this.

Dean was his stone number one, his whole life, and the only thing that kept him grounded. He could only presume that Dean felt the same way about him. They were codependent on each other, and they both knew it.

Sam, lost in his thoughts, was brought back to his present situation when he heard Dayne and Eli return, carrying something large. He couldn't see it just yet, but it was loud when they brought it down the stairs. He knew what it was though before it was even set in front of him.

A large, metal water trough that reminded him of those that were seen in horse stalls. It was filled to the brim with water, and Sam felt his stomach seemingly drop to his feet. Mackel pushed him forward with the barrel of the gun, and he found himself leaning over the edge, gripping the sides as his breathing started to speed up.

"Sam?" he heard his father say. "Sam, I need you to control your breathing. Deep, steady breaths, okay? In for eight, out for eight. It'll make this easier on you."

Sam tried, he really did, and he thought it was helping slightly, but when Mackel started the countdown he couldn't help but forget about that and focus on what was happening.

"Five." Sam took a deep breath, savoring the taste of the air, however musty, on his tongue. "Four." He tried to look sideways to Dean for any form of comfort, for assurance, but Mackel blocked his entire peripheral view. "Three." And down he went.

It was expected, really, for Mackel to do that—it was the dirtiest play in the book—but it still didn't prepare him for how cold the water was. It was _freezing_. It felt as though he had been dipped into a pool of solely ice, his face becoming numb within the first few seconds he was under. His hands still gripped the sides, but he knew if he were to resist it would take more endurance, more breath, and he couldn't waste anything at this point.

The first minute wasn't bad. For a sixteen year-old he was pretty athletic, and his stamina was decently good. It helped with running, and it was most certainly helping here. But as the 60 second mark surpassed, going onto 90, he started to feel his chest tighten and restrict, searching for the oxygen that he so desperately needed. He counted as the time passed.

It was two and a half minutes before he started to see black spots form in his vision and three before he started to struggle. He needed air, he _needed_ air. He began to thrash around slightly, using his arms to push him up, but Mackel's grip on the back of his head held firm. Oh God, he _needed_ air.

It was three and half minutes when he finally relented and opened his mouth, searching for any form of air, of breath, of life, but he was only greeted with water. He choked, feeling lightheaded, and then gave up on his struggling. He was going to die here. He was—

Just like that, he could breathe again. Greedily, he gasped in air as fast as he could, never knowing how much he appreciated the feeling of air respiring in and out of his lungs until now. Mackel still held the back of his hair, his fingers tightening in his messy curls, but none of that mattered to Sam right now. _Air. Air mattered._

"Sam?" he heard his father shakily ask. "Sammy?"

He didn't have it in him to reply. If he replied, that would take breath. And if that took breath, that meant he had less of it. And if he had less of it, he couldn't breathe. Breathing was all that mattered to him.

So when he was harshly pushed back under the surface, he didn't know what to do. _Focus on counting, focus on counting, don't think about air, focus on counting,_ he repeated in a mantra inside of his head. _27...28...29…_

He was yanked back up.

"Stop! You're going to—!"

Was that Dean? Maybe it was. He couldn't tell though. Granted, he couldn't tell anything aside from the fact he couldn't breathe but it definitely sounded like Dean. He didn't get the chance to ask however before he was back under. _39...40...41...38...wait that wasn't right, was it?_

He was pulled up for the third time, but this go-around Mackel released him and he fell to the floor, gasping and _breathing_ and oh God he was _breathing_. He could _breathe_.

Far away he could hear someone calling his name. But why was everything so _soft_? And what was that distant ringing? Was he back in school? It was probably another one of the bumfuck cities that they were staying in again, with the crappy neighborhoods and the crappy people and the crappy schools. The bell was ringing and ringing and _ringing_. Why was it still ringing? And wait—which class was he supposed to be going to next? All the different schedules he had with all the different schools and all the different towns got confusing sometimes.

Maybe...maybe he should just sleep. Sleep sounded _really_ good right now. Like, _really_ good. At this point he didn't care if he got detention. So what? He would be able to _sleep_ and sleep was a _good_ thing.

If he could just close his eyes...only for a little bit…

* * *

He awoke chained back to his pole.

It wasn't surprising; honestly, he had spent the last however many hours restrained that it was starting to become the normal for him. Dean was still to his right, his dad was still in front of him, and the room was quiet once more. He lifted his head gradually, rolling out the kinks. His chest felt tight, and he needed to cough, but Dean and their father looked so...peaceful.

The faint worry lines were still there, but they were actually asleep. Sam didn't know when his dad had last gotten some rest. It had to have been at least since before they got here. He doesn't remember too much from the motel room's perspective, but he faintly can recall the pounding on the door, the scrambling to grab their weapons after waking from their fitful rest, and the backing up against the corner wall of the room. Dean had thrown himself in front of him.

He remembers the feeling of not being able to breathe, the water ice cold and suffocating, and he shivers. His hair and shirt is still completely soaked, and the humid air in the room does nothing to soothe the frigidness. They hadn't even been here 24 hours and he and Dean were already in awful shape.

The trough was gone but the water on the floor from the aftermath of his struggling was a haunting memory, and he willed himself away from looking at it. He had felt like he was going to die. He doesn't want to die. But...when he does go? He wants it to be normal and not being drowned by some psycho his father had a quarrel with nearly half of a decade ago.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice was calm and gentle, and Sam felt a pang tranquility by knowing his brother was by his side. He turned to look at him, but said nothing. What could he even say? He had just been drowned—Dean having to watch through and through—and Dean had just been sliced open, bleeding out before Sam himself. It's a mutual feeling, and to be honest he thinks that both of them aren't even thinking about themselves in this situation.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean softly asked.

Sam didn't really know how to answer that, but he figured the truth was better than lying in these conditions. He waited for a brief moment, before replying forlornly, "Not really."

Dean breathed out through his nose, sharp and harsh. "Dad said he would be watching over you while I got some sleep. Shit job he did."

"He's exhausted. I don't think he's slept once since we've been here. Anyway, I'm fine."

"You passed out."

"And that's true," Sam admitted, "but Dean, your guys' wellbeing is also important."

"Not when my little brother is being killed right in front of me."

Sam fell silent at that, but he allowed himself some slight hope. Because as long as he had Dean, they were going to be just fine. And as long as Dean had him? They were going to be perfect. All that they needed were each other.

 _tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys! Yes, I know, long time no see. I'm kind of on vacation right now, and it's been hard to find time to write. Sorry that this chapter is about 500 words shorter than what I usually write, but one: it's really hard to write John since he's such a diverse character; and two: I just felt like this was a good place to stop the chapter. There will be another A/N at the end to explain some things.**

 **Anyway, thank you for all of the support! I read each and every review, and it really makes my day. So, a huge thank you to those who have followed and commented! I love you!**

 **Warnings and disclaimers, see Ch.1**

* * *

Sometimes life was good. Sometimes it was amazing. Nothing could go wrong, nothing would go wrong. But life was never perfect, and John was the one to find that out the hard way.

First it was his father who left him. Told him goodnight and then abandoned him to his house alone, in which he was forced to grow up in without a dad. Simply had left and never bothered to return-and it wasn't even like John knew what had happened to him. It was like when he was in the war. When wives would anxiously await news on their loved ones and hold onto small slimmers of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could see each other again. Hug each other again. Say goodnight to each other again. John never got that opportunity.

No, see, because no veteran would come to his door and say that he was deceased, and as bad as that sounded, closure was better than infinite curiosity. John would know. He would understand. He lived it.

Next it was Mary. The love of his life. The sole, bright light in the dark alleyway that he was trying to navigate himself through. Her laugh as pure as the diamond in her wedding ring that he had proposed with all those years ago. Her smile enough to illuminate even the most rayless of pathways. She was the one who saved him.

Fire, fire, fire.

It's funny how people can think a flame is so beautiful. It's flickering colors swaying in the wind patterns amongst the atmosphere, the embers falling gingerly to the surface beneath it. John would like to disagree with those people.

You've never see a true wildfire until it's right in front of you. Especially when your wife is in the centre of it, a look of utter horror and terror imprinted on her face, subsequently his mind. His son being confused as to what is happening, his arms wrapping protectively around his baby brother. John trying to conceal the truth because nobody Dean's age should have to go through trauma like he had at such a young age. Maybe that was where he had first gone wrong.

Fire, fire, fire.

The smell of burning flesh wafts through the room, weaving its way around all the other various scents in the dingy basement so that it's the most noticeable. Dean lay sprawled out on the floor. Sam lay unconscious against the water pipe. Copper is not a good mix with burnt skin, and red does not fit with Sam's pale face.

F and B have been crumpled into little balls of paper that now lay at John's bound feet, one reading 'fire' and the other 'bludgeon.' X and D are right next to them, a reminder of how much of a screw up he is. He can't even protect his own children. And now...only four letters sit in that pile. It's a minority that seems to cower underneath the overwhelming amount remaining, sniggering in John's face. 22 letters to go. Sam and Dean are strong, but not that strong. Not strong enough to endure the weeks of torture that Mackle seems to be on the favoring side of. No, no, no. Fire, fire, fire.

 _Crack._

 _Sam falls appearingly lifeless to the floor, a steady flow of blood streaming from his nose._

 _John screams his name. Something tells him that his son doesn't hear him._

 _Screams._

 _They reverberate off the walls of the underground wood panels._

 _Dean. Dean's screams._

 _John feels wrong thinking that it may be a good thing that Sam is not awake right now. He feels even more so wishing he was the same way._

He can't take this.

Fire, fire, fire.

He pulls harshly against his manacles. He doesn't stop when the metal digs into his skin, nor when he can feel the blood dripping down his wrists and his hands. He doesn't stop when he hears a vicious snap, followed by a blinding pain that shoots up to his elbows in pulsating throbs, rhythmic with his racing heartbeat. He only takes a five second break when the blood supplies some traction with his chains, and then he's back at it again; yank, release, yank, release. His hand is sticky, undoubtedly covered with crimson, but he can feel his hands slipping. His fingers are numb by the time he manages to slide his right hand out of the cuff, and when he brings it up to look at it, there is not one glimpse of skin to be seen, layered behind all of the blood. His blood.

His fingers begin to shake violently and he brings the hand down to rest on his lap, pain flaring through the broken bone and muscle. He allows himself a near-silent groan to relieve the sting, a tactic he learned in his time of service, and forces himself to fiddle with the other binds. Unlike his wrists, his feet are tied with rope and John figures to work on that before trying his luck with the other side of the shackles.

It's decently simple to undo the knots—even with a broken wrist—and before he knows it, he's standing on level ground. For a moment, a wave of nausea hits him and he comes down to one knee, his left arm extended to the maximum. He waits for the moment to pass, and when he gathers his bearings, he places his foot on the head of his chair and kicks.

The wood breaks free, and although the cuff is still on John's wrist (not to mention a small piece of wood plank from the chair), he still has full mobility. Controlling his breathing, he stumbles over to where Sam rests, head against the metal and eyes closed. John cups his hands around his chin, and lifts it up. Sam responds slightly to the sudden movement, twitching in his sleep, and John softly calls his name. It takes a little prodding, but within a few minutes his youngest's eyes are open, hazily looking around and trying to deter where he is. The poor boy had already had a concussion, and of course John had to be stupid enough to let him take two letters in a row. He mentally kicked himself.

"Sam," John whispered. "Sammy, which sock is the paperclip in?"

Sam shifted his gaze to look at John, and his eyes seemed to sober a bit. "Huh? Oh, wha'...uh. M'ybe the left?"

John wasted no time in grabbing it, soundlessly laughing in pride at both his son's paranoia and his intellect. Paranoia or not, it was going to come in handy.

"H-How's Dean?" Sam stuttered, the words sounding funny on his tongue.

John spared a glance to the limp figure laying being him, but looked away immediately. His breathing was starting to speed up, and his feet and face were beginning to become numb. Now was not the time for a panic attack. He needed to be there for his children. He shook his head, and answered, "Dean's...Dean's fine. Take this," he said, changing the subject, "put it somewhere where they won't find it just in case." He handed the paperclip to Sam's hands carefully, and Sam nodded.

"'Kay. But...but you..."

"But what?"

"Y-You sure Dean's..."

"He's fine."

"'Kay..."

It may have been a douche move to lie, but right now he couldn't have Sam breaking down as well. He inhaled and took a deep breath, the tingling under his eyes and on his cheeks subsiding with his slowing breathing pattern.

John moved to turn around, but a loud clang from the top of the stairs stopped him in his tracks. Light flooded in, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Sam stretched his hands and placed the clip under his tongue. Smart, smart boy. He then closed his eyes and resumed his position of "unconsciousness," but at least this time John knew he wasn't truly out.

Dayne and Eli walked down, partnered with Mackle, and Mackle stopped dead in his tracks. He was obviously surprised to see John standing and not in his chair.

"Wow," he said, his eyes darting to John's wrist. "You seriously broke your wrist in order to escape? Damn, I'll give you some credit—that's pretty impressive."

"I don't care what you think."

"I know."

Dayne stepped forward, and John dropped into a fighting stance. His back leg kept him balanced, and he gripped the piece of wood hanging from his good hand while keeping his broken one tucked into his stomach for protection. At least he might be able to use it to his advantage.

Before he knew it, Dayne was lunging and he managed to sidestep to the left. He kicked out, hitting Dayne in the stomach and knocking him back a few paces. This is when Eli decided to jump in, and John had to maneuver to avoid the right hook heading straight for his face. Taking advantage of Eli's recoil, he landed a solid uppercut and knocked him down.

Punches were exchanged, and John was starting to feel the effects of sitting in a chair for a day straight. It didn't help that his right wrist was of absolutely no use to him, and he knew he had to figure out something before he lost this battle.

Trying to form some sort of plan, he turned to face Dayne who was recovering gradually. Raising the wooden block, he swung his arm back and with all of his force slammed it into his opponent's face. The damage was instant, Dayne dropped loudly to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs. Eli seemed to hesitate on seeing his buddy fall, but committed anyway. John ducked an incoming punch and spun around, repeating the process.

"Alright," Mackel spoke out, "I've had enough."

John didn't even get to prepare before he was suddenly overcome with an astounding amount of pain.

Fire, fire, fire.

It raced from his feet all the way to the back of his neck, and his muscles locked in place. He fell to the ground twitching, the taser having the intended effect to immobilize him.

"John, John, John. I thought you had learned your lesson," Mackel shunned. "Guess I was wrong. Huh. Anyway, how would you feel if I were to pick the next letter? You good with missing out on one round? Good. I choose R. And, because I'm such a saint, Sam can feel free to endure this one. What was that in which he said earlier? 'Defenseless bitches?' Plus, I mean, he's already awake unlike your other one over there. I guess being burned alive wasn't necessarily in the job description, but you get my point. You good with that Sam?"

Silence.

Mackel sighed.

"Well. I hope you're feeling real good about yourself right now, Johnny." The slip of paper was dropped into his lap.

The panic attack he was trying to subdue earlier came back and hit him full force.

* * *

 **When I first began this story, it was a free-write. I had no idea where I was taking it. But, now I've got a general idea.**

 **A few things before I leave y'all. The first one is, this rating might jump up to mature when I update the next chapter. I'm still not sure yet. But, I will remind you, there will be NO non-con. I don't write that, unless I think it's canon (which there are times in which I believe ).**

 **Second thing is, I need an opinion, so I'm going to let y'all decide.**

 **Should I write the recovery in this story, or in a separate one?**

 **YES there will be a recovery! I'm no sadist and I'm not going to leave them here. I don't think I would ever forgive myself if I did ;-;**

 _tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter is the longest I have written to make up for the lack of updates. If you can't tell, I'm very disorganized and don't have a true schedule, and for that I'm sorry. But as soon as I finish and get my beta's to look it over, I post it immediately.**

 **Now, the rating will REMAIN TEEN.**

 **However, there are a few warnings for this chapter. Please take it seriously, and do _not_ read if you are uncomfortable with the following subjects. If you would like to PM me, I can message you a condensed version of this chapter.**

 **Warnings for: Molestation of a minor (17 y/o); Implications of non-con/rape elements, but only mentions; and suicide.**

 **Read safe, y'all. Another A/N at the end.**

* * *

When Dean awoke, everything was hazy. The whole room was a blur, and he felt a sudden onslaught of sickness overtake him. He lay on his stomach, and although he would have _liked_ to look up and move his head around in order to see what was happening, it was useless.

His back was completely charred, the flamethrower marking its way across the previous knife cuts that had been sliced on his skin. Fire always seemed to loop back to their family, didn't it?

He took a few moments to catch his breath, and the ringing that had been holding residence in his ears for the past long while was slowly subduing. It was noisy in the basement, full of somebody screaming and this time Dean wasn't sure who it was. Pretty much all he had been hearing this day was screams, whether it be his own, John's, or his little brother's.

He felt guilty just thinking this, but he was probably growing accustomed to his family being tortured. Everytime he woke up, everytime he looked, something was happening and he was powerless to stop it. Hope is a tacky thing, and for a while he thinks he actually had some. But as time progresses, he's beginning to wonder...what is the point?

Mackel and his buddies had all of the advantages here. _They_ had the guns, _they_ had the weapons, and _they_ had the leverage. All Dean and his family had was a paperclip. That's it.

However, something about this time on his travel back to consciousness was different; there was an underlying feeling of unsettledness resting in his stomach, and his gut told him that something bad was going to happen. Of course, bad things were always happening...but this was _different._ He didn't like it.

He blinked a few times, then tried again. His father lay sprawled across the floor, and Dean wonders when he managed to get out of his chair. He obviously had broken out of it, as the piece of wood still remained attached to his hand, but nonetheless it was quite a feat to do something as strong as such.

Dean had always admired his father, and tried to do everything that was asked of him. He was his father after all, and parents are there to help their children. Without John, Dean would be dead, as well as Sam. As much to Sam's displeasure, their dad had saved them more times than he could even count, and they owed him. He taught them to fight, and he taught them how to survive.

They've saved countless lives, and created even more. They had an important job to do, so Dean was going to do it. No matter what his brother thought, Dean would always believe that they were meant for this. And if Sam didn't like that? Then Dean didn't know what to do. He cared for his brother's dreams and desires more than his own, but if Sam went off and lived a normal life like he wants to? He wouldn't be safe, and that was the problem. Dean can't live with his brother in danger. Just knowing that he would be out there and vulnerable to this rural lifestyle was enough to make Dean sharply decline.

He shook himself out of his thoughts, and glanced up at the scene playing out before him. At first he didn't understand. Frozen like ice, he didn't even blink as he realized that _monster_ was _on top_ of his brother.

Sam sat rigidly still, in the same position as he was always in: sitting down with his legs stretched out, and back resting against the pipes. But Mackel was _on top of him._ He straddled Dean's little brother, a calloused hand coming up to meet Sam's collarbone. Sam shifted his gaze, and Dean could see the utter terror and fear in his hazel eyes.

What was even happening?

That was when the realization decided to strike. He tried to sit up too quickly, and bit back a cry of pain that almost escaped him when the pain flared throughout his back. _His father on the floor. Another paper on the ground. Mackel on top of Sammy. No, no, no._

He debated screaming for a quick moment, before deciding against it and rather putting the effort to moving himself the most he could. He would not let this happen. Physical pain was one thing, but this was a completely different ball league. Hell, this was a completely different world. Absolutely nothing compared to this.

A fierce wave of possessiveness pooled over him, and it raged a storm inside his soul. Sam was _his._ He was not Eli's, or Dayne's, or Mackel's. Sam was _his child._ The one he had raised his whole life, not because he was forced to, but because it was the only thing he wanted to do. He would not trade his brother for anything.

" _Sam, you need to eat," Dean said solemnly, a grim expression washing over his face. Sam looked up at him with harsh features, undoubtedly barely controlling himself._

" _Seriously?" he responded, his fifteen-year old, beady eyes locking onto Dean's own. "You've got to be fucking kidding me right now."_

 _Dean winced, the words striking him deep. He's not quite sure what he said wrong, but apparently something had ticked his little brother off. He moved to stand up from his position on the couch, but groaned when the claw-marks that consumed his abdomen protested in a fiery agony._

" _Dean, would you stay the fuck still?" Sam asked in a pleading tone, a small amount of the ferocity disappearing from his words. "The only thing you'll do by moving is aggravate your wound even more. We've just got the bleeding stopped. You need to rest."_

 _Dean shook his head disapprovingly. "No, Sam, not until you eat. I know you didn't eat anything before the hunt, and that was over 24 hours ago. You need some food."_

" _For God's sake, would you shut up about me already?" Sam exploded. "You're the one with the 2-inch deep gashes in your side. I'm not doing anything until you've taken care of yourself. That's final."_

 _Dean huffed in exasperation. Sam was beginning to sound more and more like him every day. It started with the sarcasm, followed by the actions, and is finishing with the selflessness. When Dean was in trouble, Sam would do nothing but worry about his safety, hovering over him like a mother-hen. That wasn't right though, because Dean was supposed to be the one doing that—not Sam. Sam shouldn't have to be concerned about his brother being alive._

 _But Dean knew that once his brother was dead set on something, then there was little to no chance in changing his mind. He had a focused precision, only thinking about the task at hand, even if that meant excluding his own well being from the equation._

" _How much does it hurt?" Sam asked softly, prodding at the white bandages layering Dean's skin. Unlike his father's, Sam's touch was gentle and caring. It was different with their dad. John was raised in the army and trained to treat wounds merely so they would get you by. Horrific scars were often the result, and the stitching solid but messy._

 _On the other hand, Sam was ginger. He took his time and kept the injury tight and neat, yet also strong. Dean would say any day that he preferred his brother's touch over his father's, and he sometimes wondered if that was a good thing. He thought it was._

" _I'm fine," Dean gritted through a halfway closed mouth, trying to make the pain reside slightly._

" _So, it hurts," Sam concluded. He stood up and went somewhere into the kitchen, before returning with a white bottle of painkillers. Dean began to make a face, but Sam shot him a warning look before handing him three tablets and a glass of water. Dean glared daggers, but still downed them anyway._

 _The drowsiness started to take effect immediately, and he closed his eyes. But not quick enough. He managed to get a glimpse of his younger brother switching his position with a twitch, as well as the red that lined his jacket sleeve._

 _Dean shot up instantaneously, on alert in seconds. "Sammy!" he called, and Sam answered by turning around swiftly to scan for any danger. "What the hell is that?" Dean questioned, directing his eyes to the blood on Sam's clothes._

 _Sam sighed, and answered, "It's fine, is what it is. Now go to sleep, you need it."_

 _Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Not until you lift that up for me. Sam, are you hurt? Did that bastard catch you? I need you to talk to me, little brother." The nickname made Sam flinch in sadness, and he relented by pulling up the fabric._

 _Three, long marks lined his shoulder, and Dean nearly felt like grabbing his gun and shooting up a storm. Sam had been injured, and Dean didn't even notice because of his own useless problems. He felt like he was doing more and more things wrong everyday._

" _Holy fuck, Sam! What the hell? Why would you hide this from me?"_

 _Sam rolled his eyes in what seemed to be annoyance, yet his shoulders dropped a bit at Dean's reprimanding words. "Oh, excuse me," he said in an exaggerated tone, "it's not like you were bleeding out on the motel mattress or anything. I've had to watch you be within an inch of your life too many times than I would like to have, Dean. And I hate it. Every single time, it scares me shitless. So I apologise if I neglect a few, meager scratches on my arm that aren't even that bad."_

 _Dean's anger slowly diminished, and the guilt started to take its place. Nowadays, it seemed like those were the only, true feelings that he felt anymore, and it rotated on a block schedule. Half the time he was furious, and the other half, rueful._

 _The only happiness he felt was when he was with Sam. He may be an adult now, but that didn't mean that him and his brother were any different. If anything, they were closer together now more than ever, and he was grateful for that._

 _Dean sighed._

" _I'm sorry," he began. After a moment's hesitation, he continued, "If it's any consolation, it scares me shitless that you have to deal with that too."_

 _Sam supplied a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The sadness still held a grip on him, and Dean thought that maybe it always would. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try his damn best to make his brother happy, even if it meant Sam going off on his own way. Dean knew that's what his brother wanted ever since they were younger, and he was going to support Sam's aspirations, even if it meant himself getting hurt emotionally in the process._

Sam was his world—his entire life. Somehow, his baby brother always managed to bounce back from everything thrown his way, whether it be the hunting monsters ordeal, a soul crushing fight with their father, or a literal gunshot wound in his shoulder.

But Dean didn't know if Sam could bounce back from this.

Mackel moved further up Sam's hips, sliding a hand under the smaller boy's blood-crusted, plain shirt. Dean could see Sam visibly shudder, the touch foreign and violating to him. A few seconds passed before Mackel removed his fingers, withdrawing them from Sam's clothing, and reaching into his own pocket and pulling out a pair of scissors.

The blade slid up through Sam's chest area, the fabric falling apart at the seams. This is when Sam began to struggle, attempting to bring a knee up and into Mackel's groin while Mackel was on top of him, but he only got halfway before the man punched Sam in the face.

Sam recoiled and spat blood onto the cement floor, while Mackel cut the rest of his shirt off. He tossed the ruined attire to the side with disdain, as though it was of offense to him. Sam, now topless, looked absolutely terrified, a look Dean had sworn would never paint his brother's face again.

Dean felt so helpless, just looking onto Mackel toying with Sam, his hands maneuvering their way along Sam's muscled body. Now that Dean really got a look at it, he realized that Sam looked a lot more strong than he had last seen him without a shirt on, which was a decent amount of time ago.

Mackel chuckled as he slid down to Sam's thighs, disappearing beyond his pants. Dean almost closed his eyes in fear of having to watch this, but Mackel spoke just then. "John, John, John. I swear. You never learn, do you? I didn't really want it to have to come to this. Honestly. But, as I was raised, when you did something wrong, you got punished. That's just how it was."

Dean spared a glance at his father, and only a face of true horror met him back.

A groan from his left side made everybody fall silent, and Dean suddenly realized that both Eli and Dayne were lying unconscious on the floor. Putting together the pieces, he realized what had happened.

The sound had come from Eli, his body slowly twitching into wakefulness, but Dayne remained silent.

Mackle muttered a low, "Dumbass," before returning to what he was doing. He made to grasp Sam's belt, but that's when everything changed. The metal shackles opened, and fell to Sam's side. As fast as lightning, Sam took the opening and landed a solid strike to Mackel's face.

Mackel, definitely caught off guard, landed harshly on the floor, his already bruised face smacking against it. Sam quickly sat up, moving fast to the man's pocket and throwing the taser across the room. It hit the wall with a loud clang, and the blessed sound reverberated amongst the room. Granted, the taser had already been used, but it was still more comfortable knowing that it was completely out of the equation.

A new fire sparked in Sam's eyes, and he used his foot to kick Eli, who was slowly waking up, directly in the head. Within this time, Mackle slowly regained his steadiness, and was in the process of getting to his feet. Sam let him, and for a brief moment Dean wondered why. Almost screamed at his brother to take advantage of the opportunity. But he knew better, because Sam was a smart person. Even when he was injured, and even when he was sick. Smarter than John, smarter than Dean himself. And Dean trusted Sam with his life. In fact, his life had been in Sam's hands too many times to count.

"Get up!" Sam said loudly in a raspy voice, the lack of water making itself clear. "No weapons, no silliness, just you and me," he said. "Just you and me."

Mackel smiled a bloodied grin, and it made Dean feel a second round of worry. Before he knew it, Mackel was up and charging, running toward Sam at a fast speed. Sam stood controlled though, waiting for the perfect moment. It came when the older man was about three feet in front of him, before he ducked to the side and used his frayed hands, already damaged from the cuffs, to swipe Mackel's feet out from under him.

Mackel cursed as he hit the ground, hard.

"That all you got?" Sam asked vehemently. "After all you've done. After all of this preparing, this smack-talking, this torturing, you can't take down an injured, seventeen year-old in which you had hurt yourself? Are you really that pathetic, to hide behind your guns and your weapons and your henchmen, thinking you're so high and mighty, when inside, you're really just a scared man, taking his fear, his guilt, and his anger out on children? On a family?"

"Shut up!" Mackel screamed. "John killed my wife! He _killed her!_ She's gone, all because of him! You have _no idea_ what that feels like to lose somebody you loved to somebody you trusted! None!"

Sam scoffed, a look of pure hatred encasing his features. "Everything you love eventually dies, especially in the hunting world."

Dean felt a punch to the gut on that one, but decided to let it go as now was _most definitely not the time._ Part of him thought that what Sam had just said was based on his own experience and knowledge, and that made Dean feel extremely contrite. Who was he kidding? Of course Sam had that inspired by his own life.

Either way, the words had the intended effect. Mackel growled, and sloppily made an attack. Sam easily dodged it, the fist swinging wildly to the left. Dean understood Sam's strategy.

"You're _done,_ man," Sam said. "Just let it go."

Another misguided attempt.

Another dodge.

"Let it go."

Mackel, panting, looked Sam in the eyes, green meeting hazel. Dean couldn't see, but he could definitely sense his torturer's body tense up, the muscles becoming tight and his breathing labored. He knew what was going to happen, but before he could tell Sam to look away, Mackel was running to Dayne's limp body, and snatching the gun out of his pants.

" _No!"_ Sam screeched, and despite everything he had endured, took off at a full sprint. It was way too late though, it had been too late since Dean had seen Mackel make his decision.

"Just wait," Mackel said, his voice wavering. "Wait until you lose the person you love most, and then see how you feel. Because it will happen. It will." If the words weren't enough, the shot was more than. The gun fell from Mackel's hands, clattering to the floor loudly. The body came after, and the thump came last.

"No!" Sam shouted again, and he fell to his knees. "Nonono!"

Mackel's green eyes remained open, and Dean felt nauseous at the sight. They were exactly like his own.

The blood coated the back wall in a disturbing crimson, and the odor of copper wafted throughout the small enclosure.

It was completely silent, aside from Sam's desperate sobs.

They were louder than the gunshot itself.

* * *

"Sam."

The name was completely alien to him, and he could barely hear it through the ringing in his ears.

"Sammy!"

Sam didn't deserve that name anymore. How could he? He had _murdered_ somebody. Pushed them to the limit and _killed_ a _person._ Monsters were different. They hurt people, and they weren't a real person. But this wasn't some monster. Mackel was a human.

" _SAMMY!"_

Sam, dazed through the sound of the gunshot and the tears welling in his eyes, was snapped out of his stupor by his father's commanding voice. He looked up to his dad, silently pleading for him to fix this.

A little more soft, John asked, "Sam? Do you think you could grab the paperclip and help get us out of these chains?"

Sam stared for a moment, before shaking his head and realizing he was an idiot. He needed to get his family out of here. He stumbled over to where the paperclip lay discarded on the ground and began unlocking the one manacle that was still on his father's wrist, before moving to Dean and repeating the same thing.

Sam was completely surprised to see Dean stand up immediately as the burn marks on his back were extremely severe, but despite his back being slightly hunched forward, his brother didn't show any signs of pain. Sam knew it was for his protection, but even though it was supposed to, it didn't ease the ache in his heart.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean whispered, and wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders. Dean guided him to the stairs, and told him to sit. Sam complied, shivering. "Don't look," Dean told him. "You hear me?"

All Sam could manage was a nod. How could his family even look at him right now? He was a murderer. One of the filthy things that they hunt.

He could slightly hear a conversation going on, but he was too numb to understand it all.

"You think you could walk?" he heard Dean ask.

There were a few grunts and spells of profanity, but Sam's father finally responded, "Yeah. Tasers don't keep you immobilized for long. That bastard."

There was a moment of quiet, before he barely heard his dad ask ever so low, "He okay?"

He assumes Dean shook his head, because he was right. Sam wasn't okay. He was a murderer. That's what he was, and that's all he was. He didn't deserve his family's concern.

Dean walked onto the first step where Sam sat, and gently said, "Let's get out of here."

The three of them helped each other up the stairs together, leaving the words _X-Acto, drowning, bludgeon, fire, and rape_ crumpled in the dust.

* * *

 **I hope this was okay. I was actually kind of disturbed whilst writing this, so I'm unsure if this writing is up to my usual standards, however I truly hope it is!**

 **Thank you to everybody who has reviewed! I read _all_ of them, but I may not reply to every single one. Either way, comments mean the world to me, and they're the only thing keeping me writing.**

 **Now, a little backstory behind the ending paragraphs, and what was going through my mind when I was brainstorming. Some of you may wonder, why the hell would Sam feel like a murderer, when A) Mackel killed himself, and B) he deserved to die. My reasoning is as follows. Sam has a very extreme guilt complex, and his belief, at least when he was younger, was that everybody deserves a chance to make things right. Take Amy for example. Even she was a monster, yet Sam refused to kill her.**

 **For the longest time, all Sam has wanted to be is normal. So pushing somebody to the limits of suicide, despite it not being his intentions, will have a major, major effect on him.**

 **I am keeping the comfort part of this in the same book, so expect more chapters. We're all going to have some hurt boys, yet Sam will be more of the main focus, with Dean trying to help him through this—with Sam's belief that he killed somebody. Dean and John, of course, don't feel the same way about Mackel since they have been hardened hunters they're whole lives pretty much.**

 **So here's my explanation, and I hope it makes sense. Again, message me if you wanna talk about anything regarding my story _respectfully._**

 **Have a great day,**

 **Lizzie.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey! I have returned, haha.**

 **For those of you who have requested a prompt, I am working on it! But I run a very tight and strict soccer and school schedule, which limits a majority of my time. I only get about 2 hours of free time per day. In fact, tomorrow I am going to be on a bus for 8 hours while I travel out of state for two games. Should give me time to write, though I'm done making empty promises to y'all, so I won't promise anything lmao.**

 **Sorry if this seems sort of like a filler, but I need a transition from the basement, y'know? Don't worry, the rest of this story will not be completely comfort. Other things will pop up, but I'm only estimating another 5-7 chapters with this. Depends on where I take it.**

 **Thank you for ALL of the reviews! I sit there at night reading them and they make me so freakin' happy. :D**

 **Warnings: References to Rape/Non-Con; Molestation of a Minor**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Down in the basement, Dean didn't really have anything to ground himself to what time of day it was. He could only keep track of the intervals, and that was his only way. The intervals being, of course, when Mackel was down there, and when he wasn't. Minus the time he was unconscious, too. Honestly, he didn't know how long they were there.

It was early morning when they were taken from the motel, but it was late afternoon when they stepped outside. The sun was scorchingly hot, and the brightness was off the charts. Dean guesses that was both from the concussion and the fact that they hadn't seen light in a while, instead being trapped like animals down in a musty, cement-walled room.

His back was on fire, and Dean internally chuckled at his choice of words. However, he really was in a great amount of pain. Whenever he moved a specific way, it would rocket throughout and amongst his burnt skin, and he would feel like he was about to pass out. But he couldn't, at least not right now. Sam needed him, so Dean would have to stay strong.

Sam was a wreck. Blood kept his hair matted against his scalp, the once red liquid that pumped through his veins now crusted and dried on his head. The bat that Mackel had taken a liking to was one of the most brutal things that they had encountered throughout the 24 hours, and probably one that did the most damage. Unlike the torch, head injuries were life threatening, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't scared. He was terrified.

Sam had been both drowned and used as a baseball (and _god,_ if that didn't make Dean angry enough), both of which could have some everlasting effects. Both times Sam had went under, and both times his breathing had stumbled. After he had been shoved under the water, he had been shivering for about 30 straight minutes—even in his sleep. But soon, it had died down, and that put Dean on an intense red alert. Sam would've been freezing; there was nothing to even remotely provide warmth, so when he settled, Dean thought he was dead.

But the steady, if not a little strained, rise and fall of his chest kept him from succumbing to those horrid thoughts, and was the only thing keeping him going. He was completely mortified when he realized he had fallen asleep, and Sam had woken up without him.

Now though, the three of them were out. They had escaped. No more torture. No more humiliation. No more _pain._

Sam came to a stop when Dean did, still with both arms wrapped around each other. John came last, a little woozy, but overall in good shape. Well, correction, better shape than his sons were in. Dean looked warily at the other two members of his family, turning to his dad.

They had grabbed Dayne's phone off of his lax body, and now John held it. Just...held it. He didn't move to call anybody, and he didn't even move to turn it on. It was as though it was a strange, new device, and he had no idea what to even do with it. Dean could see his eyes cloud over with grief, and quietly, yet quickly, walked over to his father.

No words were spoken, but Dean held his hand out, and John caught on. The phone was tremblingly placed into his palm, and Dean let out a stuttered breath. He hesitated for a few seconds, before moving his fingers and dialing 9-1-1.

The dispatcher picked up on the third ring.

" _9-1-1, what is your emergency?"_

For some reason, Dean couldn't make himself speak. The words were there and he knew what to say, but he just didn't know how to say it. This was it. They could finally leave.

" _Hello? What is your name and the address of the emergency? Is somebody there?"_

Dean swiftly recovered and cleared his throat, before saying feebly, "Y-Yeah, uhm... I've got three people here, two are unconscious and one who...w-who committed suicide with a gun. I, uh, it looks like they were keeping s-some people down in the basement," he said in a near-whisper, emotion crawling up his throat and into his words. "I d-don't know, it's pretty bad here...ma'am. The other two are out cold." He quickly glanced to the mailbox and the street. "0502 Fairlake Drive."

" _Alright, sir, a team is on their way. What is your name?"_

With that, Dean dropped the phone and ended the call. He looked at his father, who nodded both with approval and apology. Dean dismissed it—he didn't need his dad to be saying sorry right now. He had done nothing wrong. None of them had done anything wrong. Shit just happens. But they couldn't afford going to the hospital at this point.

Going to seek medical care would bring about a lot of unwanted attention, as well as law enforcement and CPS (not for Dean, but rather Sam, as Dean was a grown adult) which was something they most definitely did not need right now. Especially with everything that had just happened, taking Sam away from his family would do nothing but destroy him; Dean knew that this was going to be a long road of recovery.

They all just kind of stood there, dumbfounded and confused, before John seemed to break free from his trance. It was soft, and still there, but something that neither of the sons had ever heard before: "L-Let's go, boys." The true heartbreak in his words were clearly audible, and very, very hard to miss. You'd have to be a deaf man not to hear the struggle. It was an odd thing. Their whole lives, both of the young Winchesters had never heard such decrepitude in their father's words, most certainly due to the fact he had the tone and mentality of a soldier in the Marines.

They walked to the only car sitting in the driveway, and it made Dean realize that he genuinely missed the Impala. Their sanctuary, their home, and their only sense of comfort. He missed the normality of the heat rattling on the winter days where they spent countless hours on the highways, he missed Sam complaining about the extenscious amount of homework that he had due to the numerous amount of transfers, and he longed for the days where, with the absence of hunts, they would go to the movie theatres and watch old crack flicks on the large screens.

All three of them knew that there would be no more normal. Not in the aftermath of the basement.

Hotwiring the rusted mustang, in which Dean felt disgusted in doing, was decently simple. John made a move to get behind the wheel, before Dean halted him.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" he questioned.

His father blinked, the glaze in his eyes slightly disappearing, but not completely. Dean arched an eyebrow, as though daring for a fight, before John shook his head and moved for shotgun; Sam made his way to the back, collapsing on the leather and closing his eyes. He was still shirtless, and his arms subconsciously wrapped around his waist in a fruitless attempt to warm himself. The blood of Mackel coated his bare chest and face in a dotted splatter, and Dean made himself look away.

Every time he glanced at his brother, the memories of the precedent events stormed his mind, and was a vibrant reminder as to how much he had screwed up within the past few days. He could have done so many other things different. Been a better hunter in the motel, taken all of the letters. Had he done anything differently, Sam wouldn't be laying beaten and bloody in the backseat of a strange car.

He started the engine after a few stalls, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips for the first time in a while. He took off at a slow pace throughout the homely and seemingly typical neighborhood, sadness etching its way across his face as he thought about the families that lived here. Dean may not know, nor understand the ways of the normal, apple-pie life that lingered just out of his reach, but knowing that you had a murderer living a few doors down from you would be heartbreaking. Somebody that you saw everyday, likely even waved and talked to, is in reality nothing like you envisioned them the person to be.

As he regained his composure bit by bit, he sped up slightly. Trees flew by in flashes of green and brown, the sun's rays shining bright throughout the barrier of leaves and foliage. He felt the slight warmth on his face, and quickly closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, as not to lose control of the vehicle. When he opened them, he inhaled deeply, and began looking for signs as to where they were.

The highway was in a decently desolate local, but even so, as soon as he rolled the windows down to get a feel for the atmosphere, he instantly knew they were somewhere along the east cost. The air was muggy and humid, hot as hell, and very distinct. He wouldn't've been surprised if they were in Florida, and the sign that he just passed under confirmed his suspicions when it told him he was heading north on the I-4 to Orlando _._ Their motel, where the Impala was located at, was in Alabama.

Sam groaned in the backseat, and Dean spared a look at him in the mirror. "You feelin' alright, Sammy?"

His little brother opened his eyes that had been scrunched in pain, the hazel orbs looking around for a sense of security. He found it by locating Dean. "Head," was all he managed to mumble, and even then it was weak.

"Don't worry, kiddo. We'll get you patched up before you know it. Just hang on."

The only response he received was a bleak, "M'kay."

Directing his eyes to John, Dean waited a moment before he said, "How's your wrist, Dad?"

The older man didn't react to the question, his gaze distant and glossed. Dean knew that though his body was there, his mind was not. When Mary died, it was scarily similar. John would just black out, trapped in a memory so far back that he lost his sense of where he was, what was happening, and what was reality. Dean had tried everything that he could to figure out what it was, but nothing turned up. And, even if something did, then there was no useful remedy out there to solve the issue.

It had gotten better as he had gotten older, as well as Sam, and although on the second day of November the agenda was filled to the brim with drink and rum, the spatial blanks were progressively less and less common. To see something like this resurface after so many years of it being absent was worrying, and Dean swallowed back the lump in his throat.

He rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the stress and tension, and focused his eyes back on the road. The same eyes that he was having trouble keeping dry. In all honesty, he probably deserved a breakdown. He doubted that either of his family members would remember it, and actually, it didn't seem like a half-bad idea. But, he shoved the thoughts back down into his brain, and rebuilt the wall in his mind with better defenses. He couldn't break down now.

He had a father to take care of, he had a brother to take care of, and he had himself to take care of. Dean didn't know where to start. Though, he _did_ know where not to start, that being the latter.

So he drove for the next two hours in dead silence, not even turning the radio on. The rumble of the engine was enough to keep him satisfied, and besides, his brother had fallen asleep a little over 30 minutes ago. It was the first time in which Sam had been somewhat relaxed since they were in the basement...until now.

He had just recently passed Orlando and was well on his way to Jacksonville, when out of the blue a sharp, brief yelp had shattered the thin quietness. Dean jerked reactively at the sudden noise, the tail end of the car swerving, before he managed to straighten it out and pull over.

Looking into the backseat, he discovered Sam thrashing wildly, and had opened the door to run out. John had done the same, blinking his way back into the real world as he realized one of his sons was requiring him. The night terror that gripped Sam was a bad one, and Dean didn't necessarily know how to wake him up. He tried shaking his little brother, screaming his name, but nothing helped.

"Get the fuck off of me, you bitch!" Sam had practically yelled, and Dean maneuvered his hands to Sam's shoulders to keep him still and not injure his already-harmed head. But he knew he was making matters worse. Sam was back in the basement, and Dean's hands keeping him pinned was only fanning the fire.

"Please!" Sam begged. "Please, please, please. No! I don't _want it!_ "

Dean stilled, and stood wide-eyed and frozen at the words. He couldn't move, _he couldn't move._ Dean knew what Sam was dreaming of. Of the hands that wandered his body carefully and passionately, by a man nearly 20 years older than him. Of the way his belt loosened out of its buckle. Of the hot, disgusting breath on his neck, making his skin prickle at the _non-consensual_ feeling that he _didn't want._

Before he knew it, Dean was shoved to the side, and lost his footing. He fell to the ground with a curse, and looked up to find his father now where he used to be standing over Sam. Sam seemed to struggle even more harder, if that was even a thing that could happen, and Dean could only look on. The cars continued to drive on the highway, the drivers oblivious and uncaring.

John had apparently grabbed a bottle of water and had poured it all over his Sam's face, because now Sam was upright, sputtering, and very, very much awake. "What the fuck," Sam breathed, and although John frowned, the look of relief was astoundingly visible.

He used a hand to wipe the water from his brows, and got up out of his seat. He peered around, confused, before softly saying, "We're not there anymore?"

Dean brought a hand to Sam's back, and pulled him into an embrace. Breathing in the scent of his...his _kid_ , he shook his head. He could smell the faint scent of Old Spice, however now it was overrun by the metallic of blood. He closed his eyes. "No, Sammy. No. We're not there anymore."

The commiseration was clearly audible in Sam's released breath of gratefulness.

* * *

 **Sorry if the ending seemed rushed.**

 **Writing in school is a bitch, and I only have so much time on my PC lmfao. I just wanted to get this up. More whump to come.**

 **Reviews = Candy/Love/Rainbows/Hearts/Pretty much any happy thing you can think of. :3**


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